


Karkat: be the romantic.

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bath Sex, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, PWP, such romance very Karkat wow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:52:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What gives?" he says then, as he shrugs his way out of the gi and you watch the changing shadows under his collarbone. "Some chump at this party still has a turtleneck on."</p><p>"Yeah, well, some asshole around here doesn't know how to shut up and let himself be spoiled," you say. "Get in the goddamn tub, Strider."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Karkat: be the romantic.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lacertae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lacertae/gifts).



> You won my heart specifying that you wanted a stable, confident Karkat in this pairing -- I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Tuesday is one of the days when the dojo has late-evening classes, so you get home first. It's amazing how quiet the apartment is when it's empty. You let it stay like that for a while, not turning on the TV, not even opening up your husktop right away. It's a novelty.

Around the time the last class ends, you do at least turn one of the lights on. You get a box of leftovers out of the fridge—when you each find the other's food mildly appalling, there's not much point to making meals a shared occasion—and slurp mealworm curry out of the carton as you curl up on the couch with a novel.

Your boyfriend's key rattles in the lock ten minutes later, just as you're polishing off the last of your dinner. You turn the page. "How was work?" you ask as the door opens.

Dave collapses in a heap on your shitty beige living room carpet. "It was brutal. The most horrifying bloodbath you've ever seen out of a pack of eight-year-olds. I am slain."

You mark your place in the book and set it aside. "Where he has fallen, there shall he be buried," you say solemnly. The corner of his mouth twitches, and a little burst of pleasure blooms beneath your ribs at the idea that this ridiculous, melodramatic dork comes home to you every day and lets his guard down and likes it when you snark at him.

You pick up your empty takeout carton and step over Dave on your way to the tiny kitchen. He swats at your ankle ineffectually. "You're not even going to come down here and try to kiss me back to life?"

"And wind up rolling around on the floor like a pair of panrotted morons until somebody cracks his skull on the corner of that dumpster-chic assemblage of sharp angles you call a coffee table?" You toss your carton in the trash and grab a bottle of gross red sports drink out of the fridge. "I'll pass."

When you step over him the second time, you drop the bottle. Dave catches it before it can smack him in the nose. "You learned that kindness in your freakish hell culture, didn't you?" he says. "I am moved by the overwhelming romance of this display."

"Not yet, you aren't," you say as you flip on the lights in the ablution block. The whole apartment is tiny, barely bigger than the respiteblock you'd designed for yourself in your old hive, which means you can still hear Dave's soliloquy on the cruelty of a universe that would let human larvae kick him in the shins all day and then send him home to a boyfriend who doesn't even care. You're smiling to yourself helplessly as you turn on the water in the ablution basin.

Sometimes you think this ridiculous, oversized tub was the reason Dave insisted on this apartment. You probably could have afforded something more reasonable, if you'd looked around, but this was the one with nearly a quarter of the square footage devoted to the ablution block, and the vast majority of _that_ devoted to this tub. You run the water about as hot as you can stand it and dump some of the perfumed foamy stuff into spray. (You're pretty sure John gave you guys the stuff out of some misguided pranking impulse, but it smells nice and it's non-toxic even if you get it in your gills, so the joke's on him.)

When the tub is about half full, you go back for Dave. He's still lying on the floor where you left him, though he might have moved a little in an attempt to sprawl more pitiably. (You're not fooled; he's also gotten through more than half the bottle of sports drink.) He raises his eyebrows hopefully when you stare down at him. "Changed your mind about joining me?"

You reach down and grab him by the knotted belt of his teaching uniform, hauling him up despite his squawk of alarm. "Come on, Strider-sensei," you say. "Let's wash off that obscene morass of self-pity you're wallowing in."

"My hero," Dave says, throwing his arms around your neck. You'd planned on just pulling him upright and leaving it at that, but if he's going to be that way.... You pick him up and carry him the four steps into the bathroom, and he tries to hide a laugh by burying his face in your shoulder.

You set him down on the tile and lean in for a kiss as you start untying his belt. The whole uniform is kept on with a series of knots—the big one for the belt, two little ones to keep the flaps of the gi folded over each other, the drawstring for the trousers—and Dave doesn't notice (or pretends not to notice) that you're undoing them all until you've gotten through the last one and his pants start to slide down off his skinny hips.

"What gives?" he says then, as he shrugs his way out of the gi and you watch the changing shadows under his collarbone. "Some chump at this party still has a turtleneck on."

"Yeah, well, some asshole around here doesn't know how to shut up and let himself be spoiled," you say. "Get in the goddamn tub, Strider."

"Call me sensei again," he says. You swat his ass completely ineffectually and he grins at you as he steps out of the pile of his clothes. He climbs into the tub and sinks slowly down into the water, and the face he makes is pure, lazy bliss. When did you learn to read his face this well? When did he start making actual expressions around you? 

You roll up your sleeves and sink down to your knees beside the tub. "Turn around, you insufferable jackass, and let me do your hair."

"Pulling out all the stops, huh?" The water sloshes as Dave turns, his back to you, comfortably relaxed. You can still see the last fading remnants of a bitemark you left last week, and you stroke the spot with one thumb.

"Yeah, well, wouldn't want you to forget who the real boyfriend champion is here," you say, uncapping the bottle of strengthening liquid hair cleanser.

"Rest on your laurels while you can, Karkles," Dave says. "I'm just biding my time. One of these days when your guard is down I am going to hit you with _such_ romance, you don't even know. Flowers, chocolate, motherfucking poetry, twee little bluebirds fluttering around. Troll Cupid's going to show up to take notes, going oh shit, that's what my whole species has been forgetting this whole time, god _damn_ , that feels good right there."

You massage his scalp a little harder. "Right here?"

"Mmmnnn," Dave agrees. He pushes into your hands like a purrbeast. You let him have his fantasy of one day besting you. You're being gracious here.

Gracious and maybe a little distracted. When Dave decides he's going to let himself enjoy something, he drops his defenses almost completely, liquid and relaxed, sighing with pleasure in a way that goes straight to your groin. You ignore the first stirring of your bulge as best you can, determined to back up your boasting and take care of him to the best of your ability. You finish with his scalp and work your way down the back of his neck, the flats of your thumbs digging into tense muscles. 

He shifts when you reach his shoulders, turning around in the water to stare at you with flushed cheeks and heavy-lidded eyes. "I think you need to get in here with me." You glance down. He's getting hard, his cock thickening and swelling just enough for the head to start protruding from the protective skin.

"Yeah, okay." Your voice comes out a little hushed, a little hoarse. "I can see the merits of your argument."

You strip in a hurry, dumping your clothes in the pile with Dave's as he ducks under the water to rinse his hair. Your bulge starts snaking out of your sheath pretty much as soon as you're naked, and you don't miss the hungry way Dave stares at it. Sometimes you still don't know how you managed to find someone who would look at you like that.

The water has cooled just enough to be comfortable, and you sink down into it as Dave shifts to stretch out beside you. Both of you lean into the kiss at about the same time, and you start purring almost as soon as his mouth opens for you. His hands come up to stroke your hornbeds and you groan, and his answering hum is so smug you bite his lower lip. Dave shudders.

Oh. It's that kind of night, is it? You press him into the side of the tub, using your whole body for leverage. Dave's hands clench in your hair, not really pulling, just holding on tight. Your bulge coils around his dick and squeezes, and you relish the way he arches into you. You nip his jaw and he groans, tips his head back, so you take the invitation and move down to his throat. By troll standards you're gentle with him, but the thinness of human skin means even the gentlest bite is kind of a big deal. Dave swears, rutting against your bulge, and the water sloshes against the sides of the tub. You lick his throat, suck on his earlobe, purr with victory as he loses his cool for you.

"Hnn, god, fuck you, I don't remember agreeing that you could be so good at this," he says shakily. "Pretty sure you never filled out the application for a Strider-wrecking license, you, _god_ ," and that last bit is because you just bit him and squeezed his dick hard at the same time.

"Heh." You kiss the bitemark you just left. "The complaints department understands your concerns and would like to offer you a complimentary bulge stuffed up your ass, guaranteed to alleviate your whining-about-getting-lucky problem."

"Shit, it comes with a guarantee? Sign me up." He throws a leg over your hip, water splashing everywhere, and you roll him onto his back. His eyelids flutter and he lifts his knees, and you almost want to sit back and just _look_ at him for a minute, except that you have a guarantee to make good on. You reach under the small of his back to lift his hips, and he wraps his legs around your waist as you lift him clear of the water. Your bulge slides down, trailing over his balls and into the crack of his ass. He bites his lip as you hesitate there for a second and the fact that he wants you, the fact that he trusts you and likes you as much you do him, takes your breath away just a tiny bit.

Then you get it together enough to move again, and you push slowly into him—press and pause, breathe while he relaxes and your bulge releases a little more lubricating fluid, then curl a little deeper. He's flushed and panting by the time you've eased all the way in, and you might be feeling a little shaky yourself. You let him back down into the water so you can stretch out over top of him, and his thighs tighten around you.

"So good," you breathe.

Dave doesn't even have anything snarky to say to that, just sighs a long low contented sound and turns his head to meet you for a kiss. You are so stupid over him it makes you feel weightless, warm water lapping at your sides as you press both your tongue and your bulge into him. You fumble for his hands, lace your fingers together and pin his hands above his head like that, pressing them against the tile above the edge of the tub. He moans into your mouth and rocks his hips.

Yeah, okay. If you're in charge, then it's up to you to make it work. You focus more on what your bulge is doing, concentrating on giving it actual direction. As far as you're concerned, everything about being inside Dave feels fantastic, but there's a particular spot that makes it better for him, and if you pay attention you can feel it—this stiff nub almost like a shame globe (except that there's only one of them, okay, that comparison just got weird) that you can press against through his delicate inner walls.

He groans when you first press deliberately against that spot, and when you curl against it in a slow, repeating pattern, he writhes. His hands clench on yours and his heels dig into your back, even as he thrashes hard enough to make waves against the sides of the tub. "Oh god, oh fuck, Karkat, _Karkat_ ," he says, and the echo off the tile resonates in your horns and that's—that feels stupidly symbolic somehow, having him fill your senses so completely.

He's barely getting any friction against your belly, but he doesn't ask for more or try to get a hand free, so you stay right where you are. You love being able to do this to him, to wreck him from the inside out just as badly as he does when he's the one filling you. He didn't think that was possible when you first started pailing, and proving him wrong was a giddy, addictive thrill.

You have to bite your lip and hold tight to your concentration to keep it up—your bulge wants to move in a looser, more undulating pattern, and you have to work to keep the pressure where Dave needs it. He's getting incoherent by now, not even moaning your name anymore, just gasping out little hungry noises, nothing but need. You hold on—almost, almost—and then you feel him hit climax, all his muscles locking up tight under you, his genetic material spattering hot against your skin. You keep up the pressure on that spot until the sharp shake of his head that means he's done and he wants you to stop. You do stop then, as completely as you can, trying to make your bulge entirely still. It's not easy.

Dave looks up at you with his eyes lazy and half-lidded, his cheeks flushed. "You're a fucking menace," he says contentedly. "Karkat Vantas, terror of the prostate."

"You're not allowed to give anybody titles ever," you tell him. Your bulge squirms despite your best efforts to hold still, and Dave shivers.

"You're not done yet, huh?" he says. "Go on, I'm good."

God, he really is. You let your control go and your bulge coils inside him in slow, long pulses, readying your material for release. He kisses you anywhere he can reach, your mouth, your cheekbone, your jaw, your ear, and his thumbs stroke the backs of your hands.

"There you go, babe, let it go," he says, his voice rough and low, "yeah, come on, want you to feel as good as you made me, god, you're so fucking sexy like this, give it up for me, I want it," and you do, keening in your throat as the heat and shivers wash through you and you come.

You slump forward, resting your forehead on Dave's shoulder. He unwinds his legs from around your waist and nudges the lever for the drain stopper—the water starts to drain out of the tub with a glug, and you take that as your cue to roll off him and stop resting all your weight on his hip sockets. The mess when you pull out is diluted in the water, but still pretty gross.

Not gross enough to make you get up, though. You flop next to Dave with an arm over his waist, lying there as the bath drains. "Hi," you say eventually. "Glad you're home."

Dave smiles at you, this quiet and completely genuine smile that makes your heart ache. "Yeah," he says. "Me too."


End file.
